


five.

by RookieBrown



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Clarke, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Marriage, Soldier Lexa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 07:34:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8003935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RookieBrown/pseuds/RookieBrown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dream even if it breaks your heart, that what your father used to say and somehow it's ingrained in you.</p><p>Or, the Clexa AU which I wrote because I was inspired by "Imagine Me and You" except it's totally different and because I am a lover of "Clexa Forever", I have tried to capture their essence in 10K words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	five.

**Author's Note:**

> I had this major writer's block somewhere midway while writing this. But this song kinda inspired to write through. To those you haven't listened, you should definitely listen to, 
> 
> "Where's my love" By SYML.

_Did she run away, did she run away?_

_I don’t know._

 

 

You dip the paint brush in the water to wash away the remaining colour strands that clings to it and you watch a  bit too intently at the serene way the colour meanders on its surface. You smile almost to yourself, that sad kind of smile, before shaking your head and putting up yet another finished painting against the white walls of your suburban home.

 

The painting is anything but special, you are sure that would be Finn’s words when he sees it. It’s just a mother cuddling her infant on a swing, a scene that you saw at the park one day but it struck you vividly, that tangent happiness of the mother with that oceanic love plastered on her face. Seeing her you remembered maybe _that might have been your almost something._

 

It’s barely 4 in the afternoon and you are counting the things you can do except you turn out empty handed. If you had asked that 19 year old self where did you see yourself 9 years later, this reality would never have been one amongst them. But here you were. Just a pretty blonde uptight wife living in the suburbs, cooking and cleaning the house, counting the hours for your husband to get home from his office, with no dreams or aspirations.

_Pathetic. Really._

 

Maybe the only upside was, you loved him as he loved you. And that was only thing which made those voices in your manageable, that assisted you in burrowing your still breathing dreams in the tiniest part of your heart.

 

 

 

You have your sketch pad in your hand and you are sitting in your sundress in the TonDC park. You are twirling the pencil in your fingers, eyes jumping from one scene to another when it finally stops at your favourite neighbour Aden Woods, playing soccer with someone you had never seen before. A she. Aden, when he saw you, waved at you and when that certain someone glanced at your direction you swore she took your breath away.

 

You swipe your dried tongue over your thin lips, nervously when you see Aden running towards you pulling in with him a slightly agitated woman.

 

“Practise going good, Ad?”

 

“Yeah. Hey, Clarke this is my aunt, you know the one I told you about?”

 

You scrunch your eyebrows for recollection and its only then you remember of that disciplinarian aunt who was in the Army whom, to be fair, you had thought to be a bit more not-her.

 

When you finally look at her, you feel the thud in your heart increase its momentum. She only cuts you down by a few inches but by god, she makes plaid tank tops and shorts look like the hottest apparel for women. She was a small frame, slim yet she was dominantly regal as she stood in acute posture, hands behind her with braided hair clasped in a bun. You could see her chiselled jaw clench and those emerald irises sharpen in ultraviolet intensity as she watched you study her.

 

She offers her hand for a greeting and you meet her half-way. Her palms was detectably softer than you would have assumed and oddly it melted in you, unlike the roughness of Finn’s hands.

 

She spoke too formally for your liking. “Lexa Woods, Ma’am.”

 

Still you couldn’t help but end with a soft chuckle. “I’m only 28. Call me Clarke. Clarke Griffin …. I mean Collins. Clarke Collins.” You stammer in your own words, swirling the ring on your ring finger.

 

 You know she caught the tremble in you when you stammered, the glint in her eyes told you. Her face was robotic as if it had rehearsed all its emotions into clippings but her eyes, her eyes had the depth of the evergreen, far too haunting, as if you were transparent in her gaze. You shivered on your ground.

 

“Of course, Clarke Collins.”

 

The way she emphasized the “k” in your name, a bit too longingly was sinful, almost stealing your breath again but the Collins following your name, especially her saying somehow didn’t ring right. You wondered if she saw that dampness in your eyes.

 

“Aunt Lexa, I see Atom. I’m gonna go play with him ok? Bye Clarke.”

 

And the forgotten third person was gone just like he came.

 

You eyed the singular tattoo that painted the sweat toned arm and loose itself in under the top and instantly blushed red when you heard a clear of throat.

 

“I’m heading home.” You croak out, and fumble with your art items until she steps in for assistance. She doesn’t let you protest but even if you do, she shrugs.

 

 

 

“You must paint really well.”

 

She says as she stops in front of your door. You look at her questioningly but she just points at your finger nails and skin that are marred with paint. Against her words, you still doubt her, because you doubt yourself.

 

“It speaks of your dedication.”

 

Five words from a mere stranger halts you as you unlock your key to your house. When you look back at her, all you seen in that dark outlines brimming with sincerity, a hefty honestly that clogs your lungs.

 

You barely make out a “thank you” before you shut the door behind you.

 

That night, like many nights before, you stare at a text from Finn saying he will be working late and not to wait up. So you don’t. That night, unlike any other nights, you small asleep with a burning flare inside you, a voice saying as if it’s time to believe in those five words again.

 

_Be gentle my little thunderstorm. The world isn’t ready yet._

 

 

The clock bares 4am when you wake up, perspiring. You are drenched in sweat and in your own unconscious tears. You wipe the wet and rush to smash some cold water against the tropical warmth of your face. When you get back, Finn’s still sleeping but he’s on the other side of the bed, a bit too far away from you and wonder how this gap between the two of you became so wide.

 

You try to fall asleep except you can’t so you get up for a brisk stroll on your front yard, hoping maybe in the silence of the dawn you’ll find your words.

 

 

 

You are pulling the night gown closer to you as you stare out, at the nothingness of your surroundings and almost don’t see Lexa walk up to your porch, heat clinging atrociously well against her running attire. You hear her sucking the morning air a bit too hurriedly but neither breaks the menopaused emptiness of the atmosphere.

 

“Running sometimes help me to sleep.”

 

She says awkwardly, shuffling the cemented path with her footwear. You wonder if the dark bags under your eyes screams her those unspoken thoughts.

 

“I don’t dream anymore.” You blurt out in the hanging sadness. Because dreaming is important. Dreaming is where science stops and faith begins, its that pause that connects the intangible extremes and you have stopped dreaming.  

_Dream even if your heart breaks,_ that was your father always believed and oddly those words have been ingrained in you too.

 

Blue eyes look up to meet midway the already staring green orbs, and she almost mirrors you. The sadness, the misery.

 

“I would like some company while running …. If you are up for it, Clarke.” _It gets lonely, being alone._ You hear her unsurfaced words, you hear them clearer than daylight. You nod.

 

Greyness of dreams bereft of shades strangles you in open eyelids and you wonder what could be more tragic for an artist.

_Misery loves company, wasn’t it?_

 

 

 

Every morning when your digital clock chimes 4.15am you are up and by 4.30am you are by her side, ready to start.

 

You feel the muscles of your leg churn up when they get deprived of oxygen and you swear you feel your heart pumping on your throat, and your lungs you can feel them pleading and dying every passing second but somehow against all the odds of your bod, you find to invigorating. The pain somehow manages to swipe itself in the background when she asks you to stop struggling and fighting against the pain and instead to let it flow through you.

 

Because nothing in life lasts forever, then why should pain be an exception?

_But you want to feel that pain. It means you still have something to lose._

 

 

 

Both of you don’t speak, but when two pairs of eyes meet in cordially, you know it’s anything but cordial. It’s like a surge of electricity, admiring without judgement and holding each other without chains. But sometimes when the deafening silence weighs down too much, you both fill them with minute words that left more words un-worded.

 

 

 

“You don’t like the silence.” You state matter of factly.

 

“No, I don’t.” There’s that restraint in her voice. “It reminds me of that unwarranted peace before war.”

 

Her head is held high as she surges past up but you see the slump in her shoulders that slackens her.

 

 

 

“I think I’m lost. I know, I’m lost. Do you think it’s possible to be lost even though all you want is to be found?” You ask aloud.

 

“I don’t know. I think I’m still searching for someone to find me.” She sounds broken, a voice that echoes melancholy and you want nothing more to help her find herself.

 

 

 

“My dad used to be a sucker for sunrises.” You speak with your legs tugged underneath your chin as you eye the myriad of colours that breaks in the vast never ending palate before you. “New day, new hope, new beginnings, he always said. I was always daddy’s little girl. Back at San Francisco, we would go for hikes along the meandering trails, devour his infamously cooked marshmallows and we would count the stars to pass the twilight hours, waiting for dawn to break.” You hastily reach out your hand towards the breaking dawn, hoping it wasn’t a mirage you are seeing too.

 

You feel moisture seep into your vision, which makes you self-conscious around her. She doesn’t ask for any explanation and you realize you gave it all away in halted phrases and by gone memories. But she also doesn’t ask you how you are coping, she just sits there and by herself, she searches for that fine line somewhere out there. The finishing line of it all.

 

You know she’s there for you, because there’s that light yet hefty brush of your shoulders against hers as she inches towards you. It doesn’t mean anything.

 

Except,

_I am here for you._

 

And those five words are enough for you.

 

Slowly, these small talks of nothing and yet everything becomes an un-chalked plan in your boring routine too.

 

 

  

You watch her scream to her Trikru Warriors words of encouragement as small feet of 11 six to seven olds scramble and fumble with the ball against the tall and competitive fifth graders.

_Blood must have blood,_ that’s her motto as she sternly commands her soccer team, the one she coaches every weekdays without a fail. You stand at a corner and watched as her warriors nod their tiny heads with pride and determination that had made that dormant bud in your swell.

 

When a small blonde girl, _Tris,_ you suppose, frown disappointedly at herself, you had watched astonishingly as Lexa got down to her knees. Pointing her finger to the little one’s chest, she had said,

_It’s what in there that matters. Your love. Every single one of you have made me proud. Every single one._

_You watch Tris smile._

_You can see Lexa smile too even though she tries to hide it._

_It makes her even more beautiful._

_Maybe hope is found in the unlikeliest of places._

“If you want to cheer at least look like a cheerleader.” She says before the match starts and throws in an oversized jersey at you. Then she furrows her eyebrows, curiously and you feel a blunder in you.

 

“I don’t look nice?” You struggle with the hem of the top, dissatisfied at yourself. From the periphery you see her shrug off her baseball cap and tug it on your blonde mane.

_It fits perfectly._

 

“You always look good.”

 

Neither of you see the ruddiness that brushes your cheeks redder.

 

 

 

He calls you baby as he plants pepper kisses along your jawline, juggling his briefcase in one hand and the other loosely holding onto your waist. He whispers out soft _I love you’s_ and _I’ll be home for dinner today_ or sometimes even _we haven’t been on a date night for a long time …._ And you nod dutifully against his lips.

 

When he finally smiles dopily at you, from the front door and calls you _Baby_ a bit too lazily, you can see that desire in his eyes of having a mini-you and him toddling against the wooden grounds and you stiffen vehemently.

 

You love him, but ….. but all you can find is deniability and faultiness in yourself right now.

 

You pick up your paintbrush, flicking against the white canvas mindlessly. When you are half way through painting the heavy lashes of those nerve wreaking irises, it’s only then you realize it’s her.

_Lexa._

 

Lexa in whose shadow somehow your Finn pales in comparison.

 

 

 

Her team loses but in Lexa’s words they lost graciously. They fought valiantly and they lost honourably. And you know they did.  You don’t know when was the last time you had cheered so much from the sidelines, maybe in college when Finn used to play but now he doesn’t have much time to spare for pretty much anything.

 

You are painting too much these days. It’s like you have been caught in a sandstorm but instead of losing your way, you are finding your path. So much more that your studio space in your house can’t seem to catch up. And you know it’s not because of Finn, it’s because of her. Her silence, her smile, her benign love, her steel heart …. Her everything seems to elevate you higher and higher.

 

Petrichor. That’s the only word you can think for her and its scary. Because she’s that breathe of fresh air that cleanses you off your sins. Because when you think of her, shadows stop trailing you.

 

 

  

“You don’t like children?” You have been thinking too deep that you didn’t see her put down your sundae before you. The question startles you and stops all your engines. You stare out at the little soccer team smashing their faces into their ice cream dessert. You can see the colours forming against Aden’s and Atom’s lips as they tug out their tongue playfully at you and you smile. Your frown magnifies exponentially when you remember her minute ago question.  

 

“Finn and I, we got married because I was pregnant. Eight months in, somehow I miscarriage. You should have seen his face. The disappointment, the sadness, the pity. But he coped, got over it, something I never could do.”

 

“It was a boy and I wanted to name him after dad. Jake.” You add as an afterthought, you voice drenched from unshed tears.  

 

“It takes as long as it takes.” She says.

 

It’s been two years and counting.

_It takes as long as it takes._

 

 

 

You are staring at her while she’s staring at your fingers. No, its not staring, she’s admiring something in your fingers and it makes you giddy. You try to hide your smile behind your coffee mug but it’s futile. She hovers her hand above your right palm but doesn’t touch and somehow the action makes you want to touch her.

 

You push up your hand and tangle hers in you and there’s that stiffness in her body that makes you want to retract your steps but you don’t let go and she doesn’t either.

 

“I didn’t know artist’s hands can be so soft.” She says lowering her octaves so that it’s only you who can hear her. The distant scenario of the coffee house fades in the background.

 

She thumbs her fingers over your single digits and touches that pacified colours against your skin. “You have been painting a lot.”

 

“Too much.” You hesitantly add because as off late every single canvas is merged with her eyes, her jaw, her arms, and her braided hair. Parts of her are embroidered in every inch of your house and you can’t see to get enough of her.

 

“You should show them to me, someday.” She replies in her husky voice, you are nearly lulled by its velvetiness. Charcoal black orbs, robbed of all its green looks into you which only fuel the burning ecstasies tightening at the pit of your stomach. But when she looks away, it disappears as fast as it came. So fast, you are left to wonder if you had imagined it in the first place.

 

 

 

Sweat clings on both of you like second skin. One hand of yours grip tight on the sheets while your other hand holds onto his long hair for support while he thrusts a bit too roughly into you. You bite your lips to shut up your muffed screams but when he grips onto your hips and thrusts with vigour and determination, you feel all walls breaking down from within.  Pain and pleasure binds in one as you slip through ecstasy and physical pleasure. In the darkness of your bedroom he passes a tiring kiss on your lips before dozing off. But in that darkness, you don’t imagine your husband. You had imagined vibrant green eyes instead. You had imagined that smell of lavender, skyscrapers like pine trees and spring summer.

 

It was wrong.

 

It felt too right on all the wrong grounds.

_But is there right or wrong in this world?_

_You are looking for a middle ground to set your foot._

 

Your bed creaks when you leave the warmth of your bed for the bathroom. You open the cabinet behind the mirror and pull out the pills.

_“I think it’s time we tried again.” Finn said when he returned early, already pulling out his tie. “I want a child, Clarke. I want a girl. But I’ll be ok with a boy too.”_

_You pause in your answer._

_He imagines the worst._

_“You don’t want one? I know you do, princess. But we can wait.” He hugs you and you hold onto him like a lifeline. Tears well your eyes but you are quick to shut them out._

_You don’t want to forget him._

_You don’t want to forget Jake._

_But you know its not fair to Finn either._

_You nod to him._

But now, here you are. Sitting numb on the cold ground of your bathroom, as you gulp in one off the pills.

_You are just not ready._

_It takes as long as it takes._

_You play her voice like a broken tape recorder._

_It takes as long as it takes._

 

 

You question yourself, if Finn ever sees you anymore. Just the old plain you before you were anything else.  Something tells you he stopped seeing you a long time ago. You are tired, you are confused. You are hurting.

_You long to be seen with a fresh pair of eyes._

 

 

 

Her hands are tugged inside her back pockets as green eyes scrutinise the paintings, some which are framed up against the pristine walls and many more that captured in plain pages of your sketchbook. She listens with rapt attention when you walk down the memory lanes and recount her backstory to all your paintings.

 

You have left a part of your encased in them, she knows that.

 

“They are beautiful, you are beautiful.” She says. You try to be indifferent to her praises but you can’t. They hit you where you least expect them.

_Here. Somewhere inside the ribcage._

You can’t rationalise your thoughts when you show her the nursery that you had decorated with your own hands for _him._ Sky blue to match his eyes and wooden brown for his floppy, unsettling hair.

_Now it’s just an empty space. You don’t have the heart to fill it with something else._

 

“He wants another child. But I just can’t and I don’t have the heart to tell him.” You say.

 

She fills in the empty spaces in your words that you are too scared of yourself to say out loud.

 

“You are not ready to let Jake go.”

 

 There’s a gentle firmness when she holds onto your hand as both of you stand at the threshold.

 

“What if I’m never ready?”

 

“That’s ok too. You’ll be wonderful, nonetheless, Clarke.” She smiles at you, brushes off that yet-to-come-out tear and you can’t take your eyes off her.

 

_All I want you is to listen. Listen to the spaces I leave in-between, because I don’t know how to let go and hold on. I have forgotten. Teach me._

You tell her about your father, who made you fall in love with painting without even touching a brush. He taught you the importance of art, how it can light up even the dimming lights of a morose face. You tell her in shortness of your breathe how your father lost his long fight against cancer and how your world started crumbling. You tell her how distant your mother became, barely acknowledging you and how enraged and disappointed she was when you dropped off your med school during your final year and joined the arts department at Arkadia University. Instead of speaking to you, she had cut you off completely. And that was years ago.

 

Finn was the only constant who was there through your thick and thin. Even though you had graduated with the highest marks, year after year, you distinctly remember how your paintings were rejected, how you had searched high and low for some recognition but none came. Finn shrugged off at your daily hurdles, saying maybe it was time to let go. He had found a great job for himself and he could avidly support both of them, so your working wasn’t necessary.

 

You were suffocating in your own pillars of failures so when you said yes to his proposal, that didn’t mean you had let gone of your dreams, you just locked them up in your chambers, too far away for even you to reach.

_What you don’t tell her is, you didn’t even realize when Finn stopped being “just enough” for you._

 

“You didn’t disappoint anyone Clarke.”

 

You twirl the wine in your glass.

 

“What if I’m the disappointment?”

 

You failed your father. You failed your mother. You are failing Finn too.

 

You are the disappointment.

 

“You are not.” She counters.

 

You believe her.

 

 

 

“I want to draw your tattoos.” You heave out. You see the words, they hung mid-air. She doesn’t react momentarily, the lump in her throat sticks out her words but then she starts. Excruciatingly slow, she started peeling off her leather jacket to reveal the sculpture of arms. Your cheeks heat up, your blood boil up your capillaries, you turn over your back to give her some privacy but against all your bodice restraint, you see her take off her black sleeveless top as well.

 

Your hand shakily tries to unclip her bra clips after you seek out her consent of approval. At last, before you finally lays the marvellous expanse of skin inked in black. The design is torturously addictive, starting from her shoulder blades, curling up to its ends against the dimples of her spine. You can’t wonder if the intricate designs depict a forlorn tale of hers that she seeks to hide under her clothing. You touch it delicately, as if it’s  made of glass and you feel frostbite against her as she shivers underneath you.

 

You don’t just stop there. You traverse her dainty, perfectly toned arms, memorizing the tattoo inch by inch, skin by skin. Her hands protectively against her chest area, cascading them for your view, you don’t miss that pale redness that evokes her face as she bites her lips close eyed. You feel a rush through you, a jolt that stimulates your raging hormones and wets your clit. She has you hypnotized and oh so mesmerized, and you wonder if she’s going through the same turmoil like you are. There’s a hitch in your breathe and unknowingly you touch her rock solid abs. You are so lost in her curves, you don’t see her shot her eyes open.

 

You see a small scar, almost a circle in the middle of her stomach, just below her ribcage. She flinches before you, back stepping against the central table.

 

You don’t miss that horror, that cloudy terror that reigns her serene beauty of her orbs. She looks away from you, and starts clothing herself.

 

You have crossed that fine line. Her fine line.

 

“You are beautiful. With or without them.” You tug at her wrist. She doesn’t resist but she doesn’t look at your either. She doesn’t relent and neither do you but when there’s a buzz at your front door, a click of the knob, Lexa gets the exit she was looking.

 

She curtly says in a clipped voice devoid of any torment. “Lexa Woods.”

 

She gestures and no sooner Finn makes his introduction, she excuses herself out before you can reach her.

 

 

 

She doesn’t miss her morning appointments with you but she barely looks at you. It’s like you are both strangers who are simply running the same path but in a different wavelength and frequency.

 

 

 

This continues for three days and on the fourth day, she doesn’t bother showing up. Uncharacteristically for you, you try to rein in against the force, you try to reason yourself out of this mess but at the end of the day, you still find yourself in front of her house on the fifth day.

You see her crouching on the couch snoring lightly, a bottle of bourbon rolling on the ground. Both of her legs are hanging off the couch, her back is awkwardly lain against and the sheet has completely fallen off her, making her shiver in the open.  

_If you get close enough you can see the dried up stains against her cheeks._

_So you don’t._

 

You coordinate her legs and place her head against the pillow, her head lumps against the feathery softens and you hear her sigh. When you are about to place the sheets over her, you notice her knuckles. Her bloody knuckles, the blood has dried long ago but the skin was heavily inflamed. She winces in closed eyes when you touch it.

 

You know her for barely four months, still your vision gets blurred in tears that fall in her namesake.

_Does she know we bleed the same?_

_Don’t want to cry, but I break that way._

Her house is barren. Empty creak walls, with screeched off paint. It had a morbid smell to it that crawled your skin. The room, heck the entire house was a living dead albeit the brown tiles against it embroidered with her medals, just above the fireplace.

 

You eye the batch that lies aimlessly down.

_Staff Sergeant Lexa Woods, US Army._

 

There’s a few pictures to, tucked in a vintage frames up against the wall. You recognize almost everyone in the pictures except one. A dark skinned girl cleaving onto Lexa in every _single_ picture. Even though most of the pictures have faded yellow, it failed to take away that glimmer, the blush, those bright hues fixated on Lexa’s face with the unnamed woman beside her.

 

You wipe up the stagnant dust against the frame the overshadows her enlightening face.

 

She was happy. Irrevocably. With someone.

 

Someone who wasn’t you. That fact rumbled in you, cohering your insides and you tried to shut it out.

 

You are sceptic if that girl was Lexa’s someone.

 

 

 

The rhythm of her breathing changes, so does the rise and fall off her chest. You know she’s awake. Heavy eyelashes flutter against the brightness of the room, but when they open, tyrant green pauses stagnant on your dampened icy blues. They shutter 3 times before realising you are really here and with bandaged hands she touches your rosy cheeks. 

_It’s still wet._

She finally sits up and looks at you and then at her own hands. There’s a pregnant pause which lasts a bit too long.

 

“You weren’t answering your phone nor any of my knocks. So I kinda let myself in.” you explain under her questioningly eye rise.

“How did you know where the key was?” _Under the plant pot, it was._

 

“I might have called Anya.” You whisper out.

 

“You called my sister?” she grits at you.

 

And you snap back at her at her accusing tone. “That’s worse than breaking your front door or calling the cops?”

 

“Yes.” She snarls at you.

 

“I had to know if you were ok or not. And you certainly weren’t. Sue me for caring.”

 

She steps away from you but her eyes commands you to stare you down, but you don’t.

 

“Get. Out.”

 

You step closer to her.

 

“No.”

 

“Get out, please, Clarke.” she sniffs against her sleeves.

 

“It takes as long as it takes.”  You echo her words back at her and close the few inches with a chaste kiss on her teary cheeks. Salt tears mix from both ends as chapped lips brush against her tanned skin.

 

 

 

It’s been 2 days since Finn has left for his 10 days long business trip. It has been 3 days since you have last seen her.  You tire yourself out by running every morning but the silence of the yet to break dawn only speaks volumes of her absent companionship.

 

You miss her unabashed staring at you.

 

You miss her comfortable silence.

 

You miss her small smile that she gives you every time.

 

You miss that perfect greyness that mars her green orbs.

 

You miss her lips.

 

You miss finding yourself in her eyes.

 

And you try to not think about that kiss but like a song with forgotten lyrics, it stays with you every waking hour of the day. 

 

It’s somehow around 7 one evening when she visits you. The bandages of her hands, they are a disaster. Covered in fresh blood, uncoordinated as if she had tried to pull them out. She hisses and sneers in agony when you pull them out without a warning before cleaning them and bandaging them up fresh again.

 

“You could have been a bit gentler.” She says.

 

You don’t dignify her with an answer. You start arranging up the aid box before disappearing in the kitchen.

 

She follows you.

 

“I shouldn’t have barged in like that.” She eyes the ground as she speaks. She waits for you to say something, except you don’t.

 

“I should go.”

 

“Or you could have a drink with me.” You shove her a glass of scotch towards her.

 

 

 

“Where’s Finn?” She swirls the white liquid but she had yet to drink it. Her tone is hard, almost cold and she looks away when you look up to her.

 

“Business trip. 10 days.”

 

“Being an entrepreneur is hard, I suppose.”

 

You nod vaguely, before shagging the entire content of your drink.

 

“You and I both know small talk isn’t our forte.”

 

“Then why did you ask me to stay?”

 

“That was before I knew you were a runner. Not just literally but figuratively.”

 

“Talking to Anya a lot?”

 

“She’s worried about you.”

 

Lexa huffs angrily.

 

“So am I.” You look across to her. Invisible strings join.

 

“You care.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You shouldn’t then.” She looks away.

_Coward. You want to say._

 

“I thought we were friends?”

 

That makes her look at you. And this time it’s you who can’t hold her gaze.

_Friends is good, you suppose but it’s not enough. But it falls vehemently short. It falls short before and after. And certainly it leaves miles to long a gap in between._

_But friends was safe._

 

“Often I think I’m not worth anything. Not even your …. Friendship.”

 

The glassy look in her eyes stabs you conniving-ly.

 

“I can be a good listener too.” Is all you say.

 

 

 

A novice, budding flower petals are clasped shut but in the right time with umpteenth patience, and endurance they open leaving the gardener in wonderment. But when they open, they are brittle and hushed, docile yet extravagant is their descent.

 

Lexa was like that. Is like that.

 

She was dainty, graceful yet subdued.

 

Her fortified armoire might be rough, but it thaws in time. Sometimes even in incomplete sentences and broken melodies.

 

 

 

“When you join the army, the first thing you are taught is to have your men’s back, no matter the circumstance.” She looks out of your window at the distant grey clouds blockading the horizon.

 

“The scar that’s on my stomach, it was given by a fellow comrade, Sergeant Charles Pike. It was supposed to be a simple raid. Save the hostages and get out. Something we had done ample times. I went inside with my back up, Pike and … “ You watch her bite her inner cheeks, almost vomiting out his name. “… and Lincoln. Saving the hostages didn’t satiate Pike’s patriotism, he killed two of the three Afghan locales who resisted us in the name of our nation. The third one among them was a 15 year old unarmed boy. When Lincoln resisted, he killed him.”

 

You know Lincoln, though you have never met him. You know Lincoln through the stories that Anya reminisces, sometimes while traversing her tender fingers through her son Aden’s hair, or sometimes in aftereffects of alcoholism. But there’s always that marrow deep proudness that trails her face, that you know she proud of him. That she’s proud of them both even though she never tells them out loud.

 

“He killed my brother right in front of my eyes. When I fought him off he shot me but not before I killed him. Cold blooded murder. But he wasn’t the only one, I have killed.”  

 

This time, she looks at you as if begging you to see the monster she is. That if you came too close, you might see her façade she lurks behind.

 

“I promised Anya I would bring him back. Our baby brother. I promised. I didn’t so it didn’t feel right to attend his memoir either. I returned a month later for active duty. Anya and I, we haven’t met eye to eye ever since.”

 

You hold her intent look and you hope, you pray it conveys what words can’t right now.

_It’s not your fault. It never was._

“I believe I have killed more than I have people. The irony is, you get a medal for that. They’ll promote me when I get back.”

 

“I thought you said you weren’t going back?” you ask hurriedly.

 

She fidgets with her fingers. “I don’t know. It’s all I have ever known.”

 

She finally looks away. But you can’t look anywhere but her. You bite your inner cheek as you try to scramble up your thoughts but they are all uncoordinated and too far stretched, too distant and loud to settle down.

 

“Then why did you come here?”

 

“I don’t know. I was looking for a reason to stay.”

 

“Didn’t find it?”

 

She looks at you. Straight.

 

“I’m not sure.”

 

It’s you who is the one to look away this time.

 

 

 

Finn gossips with his co-workers while you oddly stand in the background. You feel out of place even after all these years. You catch a glimpse of Lexa who seems to have also distance herself from the unfamiliar crowd. You put the glass back on the tray and make way for the balcony, unaware of the way Finn’s eyes follows your path.

 

“They should be showcased in galleries around the world. Not undermined by some bigots who know shit about art.” She says.

 

“Lexa …” You don’t know how to reply here except say, _I know you are right, but you appreciate them so it’s more than enough._ But your voice gets lost or you don’t play heed to your own advice. You say instead, “I haven’t really thought about it.”

 

“Bullshit Clarke. You think about it every day.”

 

“I don’t.”

 

“Why are you so scared?”

 

“Lexa …”

 

“I want you to say it. I want you to say it out loud so you can hear how ridiculous you sound.”

 

“Lexa …”

 

You know what she wants you to say. But saying it out loud was like accepting it in all its ugliness.

_The truth is harsh._

_The truth is ugly._

_The truth is something that often you can’t handle._

 

 “:….. What do you want me to say? That I’m tired of getting rejected? Because it fucking humiliating. That when people ask me to work on commission, they are like … “No, the picture is too dark”, “it doesn’t really work with our room setting” … “I think it would better work with orange shades.” … its humiliating Lexa. 4 years I tried and nothing but living out off a shoe box of an apartment.” 

 

You break down in anger tears, the collar of your shirt tightening around your air pipe because Lexa just doesn’t understand. It’s tiring to be on the losing end. It’s tiring to fight for every single damn thing in your life.

 

She closes the distance but still keeps a respectable gap between both of you.

 

“You deserve more than being someone’s trophy wife. You need to stop putting other’s before you. Clarke, I …”

 

You feel her almost shroud you underneath her but you can’t be sure because all you can feel in the touch of her lips marginally against yours. The skin of your lips burns, the voices inside your head are reigning havoc. It hurts you even to breathe because she stealing them out of you in open air.

 

You don’t even reciprocate as the feather touch of hers disappears sooner than you expected.

 

You are pale as tumble unsteadily in her arms, your blackened eyes preying on her plump lips. 

 

“What are you …. Clarke? Clarke, are you ok? Did she …” But Finn looks past you, at her outstretched arms. Furious would be cutting it short. He was livid. And you couldn’t breathe.

 

“I don’t know what you did but I’m asking you to leave my house right now, Woods.” Finn emphasizes and Lexa balls up her fists.

 

Finn cradles you under him and you are too weak, too wobbly on your feet to protest. The whirlwind of emotions has bereft of all your fight.

 

But, mostly you seek refuge in him because he’s familiar and safe whereas she’s unchartered territories that you want to mark yours.

_The unknown is what shivers you to the core._

_What if the answers it holds are not the ones you seek?_

 She looks up to you, her face softening. You can see that same vacant void in her eyes. She doesn’t retaliate when Finn shuns her. Green eyes looks at you briefly. She simply bows her head at you before shunning herself out of your sight.

_But saying the truth also means you are accepting it._

_You forgot that._

You feel bleakness benumb you under warm sheets when brown eyes look worriedly at you.

 

You look away.

 

It’s not that right shade of eyes you needed.

 

 

 

“You need to stay away from her, Clarke.”

 

You place the dishes on the kitchen counter harshly and look up to face him.

 

You haven’t talked to her in 3 days. Neither has she.

 

“She’s no good, Clarke.” You narrow your eyes and he just slams his hands on both of his sides. “She’s been to war. War changes people, especially towards the worst.”

 

You know he’s not just talking about Lexa. You know his thoughts are getting mangled heavily with his father, the supposed war returned hero who had succumbed to alcoholism to keep at bay those echoes, those voices, those blood streaked cold faces.

 

Because behind closed doors, war affected Finn’s father loved two things. One was alcohol and the other was beating him up.

_War changes people._

_But judging someone by the cover and their worn out edges sounds prejudiced and judgemental._

 

“You are important to me, Clarke. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

 

He squeezes your cold hands in his.

 

“Then don’t judge her for her scars. Respect them.”

 

His eyes still hold a zillion questions but its your answer that startles him.

 

He untangles his hand from yours.

_Your hands are still cold._

You don’t seek her out.

 

And neither does she.

 

You aren’t ready to accept the gravity of the situation.

 

You know neither is she.

 

But that doesn’t stop you from seeing her everywhere.

 

It doesn’t stop you from hovering your finger over her digits to call her.

 

To hear her voice.

 

To hear her just say your name.

 

You dream of her in open eyes.

 

Her kisses. Her touches. Her embodiment tangled in yours.

 

You miss her irrevocably.

 

You wonder, if she misses you like the way you miss her.

 

But faith has a weird way of seamlessly tangling both of your paths.

 

She helps with you with your grocery packets as you pile them up in the car.

 

You don’t know what to say, but you are the one to break the ice cold glacier between.

 

“Hi.”

 

Freeing herself form your packets, she tugs her hands in her back pockets.

 

“Hello.”

 

You see her shrug her eyes down to your eyes but unknowingly so you do.

 

The generation of heat without contact, without conversation but simply by sly movement of eyes, is something you had only read in _Jane Austen books._

_You never believed it._

_Until you did._

 

She clears her throat and you peel your eyes up to look at her.

 

“I want to show you something. If you don’t mind, that is?”

 

The stiffness of her words reminds you of the very first day you had ever met her.

_Too formal for your liking. Except this time, it doesn’t make you laugh._

 

You frowningly smile.

 

She leaves without another word.

 

 

 

_Arkadia Art Gallery_

 

You don’t remember the last time you have been to one.

 

It’s been years, yet standing behind the ajar doors, you are stuck.

_You want to draw a line, it starting to get surreal._

 

You are almost stuck until you feel her beside you.

She takes your hand in hers.

_She’s walking the line beside you._

 

You feel like you are home.

 

You can’t explain it. The feeling in beyond the realm of words.

 

You are content.

 

You study the paintings ink by ink just like you used to do during and after your college days. You felt inspire sip through your veins then, just like now.

 

Somewhere amidst the crowd, you feel the grip of your hand on her loosen.

 

You feel her slowly take out her lithe fingers from yours but you don’t let her.

 

You hold on tighter.

 

You nearly break down when you see a painting by a newbie artiste Jamie Dawson.

_The Last Rose_

 

That painting makes you remind why you loved painting in the first place.

 

Nostalgia wets your shores in waves.

 

You finally realize why Lexa brought you here today.

_Sometimes you lose yourself in the ones you love. Sometimes you find yourself in them again._

 

“Remember, Clarke.” She says. “You are your own sun. Just remember that.”

 

 

 

When you see you are approaching TonDC, you whimper out, “Take me somewhere. Anywhere.” You don’t want to go to a house, without her. Not yet.

 

You watch your neighborhood slowly vanish in her rear mirror.

 

You feel a vibration in your pocket.

 

It’s a message from Finn.

 

He’ll be home late. Again.

 

There’s no _don’t wait up for me_ or _I miss you._

 

You think if this is the beginning of your end but you can’t ponder much on it.

 

Her unruly curly mane flutters melodiously against the night breeze takes your mind away.

 

You hum the lyrics,

_My arms will grow_

_Chest expanding …._

_You .. can’t take my eyes off you_

_You .. can’t take my eyes off you._

 

 

 

The car stands somewhere on a high edge of a road, just overlooking the light bathed city of Polis in the twilight hours. She looks upon the city lights a bit too awestruck at the sublime beauty and you watch her.

 

You watch you and you end up comparing _this_ Lexa to _that_ Lexa.

 

How were they so alike despite their polar difference?

 

“What?” She asks.

 

“Nothing. I just … you are so much different than those pictures of yours back at your place but still so very much the same.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah. I mean, how old can you be?”

 

“I’m 31.” She shrugs before jolting as if she remembered something. “Wow, I’m can’t believe it’s been 4 years since …..”

 

“Since ….”

 

You had expected her to hold back her answer but she gives you a latent of a smile.

 

“Since, Cos … Costia left.”

 

“The one’s who’s with you in all those pictures?”

 

“Yes, the one who’s with me in all those pictures.” She confirms.

 

She looks to the city lights and you can see her jogging down her memory lane.

 

“I had set my dominos in a straight line, planning out everything for the future. But war changed me. One domino fell, the others fell with it.” She heaves out a prolonged sigh, “I had PTSD for a long time. Still have nightmares too. She was there throughout but everyone has a breaking point. She reached hers and love fell short to match the footsteps of gunshots.”

 

“You loved her.”

 

There’s a harsh bite in your tone that blends in your words nonetheless. She chuckles lightly and you feel yourself softening.

 

“I used to. I only care for her now.”

 

You loop your arm through hers, leaning into her, cutting put soothing circles on her now healed knuckles.

 

“Do you think love is weakness?”

 

“Do you?”

 

“ _Never. I think love is the only thing sane in this crazy world.”_

By the time you reach home, it’s 2am in the morning.

 

Everything’s dead quiet except for the rumble of her engine which she clicks shut.

 

“Clarke.” She says ever so lightly.

 

You turn your back towards her.

 

“I’m sorry for kissing you that day. It wasn’t right.”

 

“Are you sorry?”

 

She plates her unwrinkled jacket, and says. “I’m not, truly speaking. But it was unwanted and …. “

 

You nearly close the gap between you, just steeping short of those minute unbearable inches from her.

 

“Unwanted?” you husk out.

 

Before your mind can catch the escalating rhythm of proverbial heart, you steady her sharp jawline against your hands and lash your mouth onto her. You drown in the aroma of lavender. Tongue tangles together, as you nibble at her lips sucking the pillow bottom flesh between your demanding ones.

 

Her back crashed against her car, you melting your bod against her slim frame.

 

This time you are the one who steals her breathe until she touches your chest, gently pushing you away.

 

“Clarke…”

 

“I know.”

 

_Head over heart. Head over heart. Head over heart._

 

You don’t know who it was but both of you bridged the gap again, her hands travelled to your back, caressing the heated skin above your clothing squeezing and tightening knots in you. But you do know when she had sucked gently on your swollen lips, you had whimpered underneath her.

 

It was the shortage of breathe that separated you.

 

That evoking sadness in her eyes engorged you.

 

You are sure you are no better either.

 

She thumbed your cheeks, kissed your forehead one final time before she left.

 

Finn isn’t home yet.

 

You go to sleep with a tear stained face.

 

 

 

“I love you” He says at breakfast. He hugs you from behind, whispering in your ears. But it no longer make butterflies rupture in you. Previous night flashes in front of your eyes, and you are barely back your bile.

 

“I want to start looking for work at galleries.” You squeak out instead of an _I love you, too._

 

“I thought you were over that phase?” He tightens the tie his neck, scowling.

 

“Finn …” You are scandalized at his accusations.

 

“Why the sudden interest anyway? Don’t I provide you with everything you want?”

 

“Because I know I should have tried harder except I didn’t. How dare you diminish my passion, my love for a phase?” she snarl at him.

 

“Well, I grew up and you didn’t. I know how hard, working can be. I love you and I don’t want you to hold onto something that won’t happen. I’m saying this for your own good.”

 

“You sound just like my mother.”

 

He reels back at the jab.

 

“God, Clarke, you are being impossible. Fine, ok. If you want to start working then do so. But if it doesn’t work out, don’t tell me I didn’t tell you so.”

 

His briefcase is in hand but he still stands at the door. He’s getting late but he has yet to move.

 

“Are we alright, Clarke? I do, you know. I know times have been hard on you but I do love you very much.”

 

“I know.” She say the truth because any other coming out of your mouth would be a lie.

 

And you couldn’t lie to him.

 

You can see the sadness lurking on his face.

 

You shut the door and fall down against it.

 

 

 

She hands you a card.

_Marcus Kane_ is inscribed in bold on it.

 

“He has an eye for talent. And he owes me anyway, just mention my name, ok?”

 

“I can’t possibly ask you off this.” You hand the card over to her but she stops you.

 

“You didn’t ask me off anything, Clarke. I just … selecting you will not be up to me, it’s your talent, your faith that will help you. I’m simply a messenger.”

 

“Finn doesn’t trust me.”

 

“I do.”

 

“But what if …. What if he’s right?”

 

“ _You just have to believe._ ”

 

_What if I fall?_

_What if you fly, my darling?_

You don’t talk about your kiss. Neither does she.

 

You don’t know whether to be relieved or be utterly disappointed?

 

 

 

“Do you love him?”

 

“I do.”

 

“Are you in love with him?”

 

Her question stills you. The single drop of green falls off your paused brush on the white canvas.

 

The second your eyes fall onto hers, you give away the cloaked answer.

 

“I’m all he’s got.” You say instead.

 

“He’s a fool. He’s an idiot. He’s changed and so have I but he was the one who was always there for me. I can’t just leave him for ….”

 

“I understand.”

 

Her two word terrifies you.

 

She’s no longer looking at you as she tugs on her jacket.

 

“Lexa. Lexa, please …”

 

“I’m not asking you to … leave him. For anything. What I want you is to think of only you for once, not him, not me or anyone. Because stringing him along at the end only to not love him, will only hurt him for the worse, Clarke.”

 

She heads for the door and you rush after her.

 

“Where are you going?” you plead out.

 

You catch the tremble of her lips.

 

“Leaving, which I should have done a long time ago.”

 

“Leaving won’t solve anything.”

 

You scream at her, tugging at her hem of her jacket harshly but she slips her arm from your tight grip.

 

“Please don’t do this.”

 

“It’s the right thing to do. One of us would have left anyway. May we meet again.”

 

 

 

It’s somewhere a month later when you find Aden sitting on the footsteps of your porch.

 

His brunette hair is disheveled, the shine in his bright doe eyes are gone.

 

“Mom and Aunt Lexa are fighting.”

 

You haven’t heard or talked to Lexa in over a month. You frown at the news.

 

“Why?”

 

“Aunt Lexa’s leaving for Afghanistan tomorrow. I thought she would stay with us. Mom thought too.”

 

You watch as warm eyes downpour with tears as he muffs his drenched face against your shirt. You try to blink back your wetness the blurs your vision, but still against all restraint, you are breaking bit by bit.

 

 

 

It’s twelve in the afternoon when you wake up the next day. You head hammers from the chugs of alcohol you had in your system. But even when held hostage under the subconscious mind, Aden’s words traverse you.

 

In a woken daze, you call her. In ends in a voicemail. You try again and again until you stop trying.

 

Your steps overlaps when you fumble from your bed, almost crashing into Finn.

 

“Where are you going, Clarke? Clarke?” you hear him call after you but almost barefoot, you run to Anya’s house.

 

Her bloodshot eyes tells the truth you never wanted to hear.

 

“She left.” You deduce half-heartedly.

 

“She made me fall in love with her and she left without a goodbye.” You scream internally as you hold onto Anya, your tears streaming down mercilessly, clinging to her now drenched attire.

 

_You don’t know which was worse._

_That she loved you enough to let you go._

_Or, that she didn’t even bother put a fight for you to stay._

_If she ran away, if she ran away,_

_You don’t need to know._

_If she ran away, if she ran away,_

_Come back home._

 

 

 

“How don’t know how to say this except I know this has to be said. You’re not happy with me. With us. You stopped being happy a long time ago. A marriage can’t work if one of them is unhappy.”

 

It’s been a month since she left. And everything feels grey to you. All except her.

 

She’s gone. You don’t know when she is coming back, if ever. But your heart wants more, it wants her.

 

“I can be happy with you again. I can be.”

 

“No, you can’t.” He shakes his head, before running his fingers over his tired eyes.

 

“You don’t have anyone but me, Finn. I …”

 

“Marriage isn’t something we do out of obligation, Clarke. I only want you to be happy, not be the one guarding you from it.” He clears his voice, “Do you love her?”

 

 “I’m in love with her.”

 

This was the first time you acknowledged it out loud.

_You are in love with her._

_And she ran away._

 

He falls heavily on the couch as your declaration sinks under his skin.

 

He nods.

 

“Did you tell her?”

 

“Not in so many words, no.”

 

“Did she?”

 

“She’s not here, is she?”

 

You sniffle against your sleeve.

 

You pull the ring out of your finger and place it on the counter.

 

 

 

Polis was once who called home.

 

Polis was where you lost your son.

 

Polis is riddled in memories.

 

Some old and grey, some shadowed and some new. But all worth remembering.

 

Because memories are the only things that stays with you.

 

10 months you have been here.

 

You aren’t happy.

 

But you are doing ok.

 

You hope that’s better than nothing.

 

10 months ago you left Finn.

 

11 months ago she left you.

 

You teach art and history to the senior classes of Arkadia Academy, Polis. Your paintings are often auctioned and sold at Marcus Kane’s galleries. But it’s your charcoal paintings of her that had been your winning ticket under his graces.

 

But you never sold a painting of her.

 

Not when she’s not here.

 

The pieces of your puzzle, your sandcastle of dreams is finally building.

 

Yet, in its core, it lacks that magic.

 

That spark.

 

It lacks her.

 

 

 

You sit in front of him.

 

Flowers clasped tight in your gloved hands. You tell him about her.

 

You place the flowers on the top and take off your glove.

 

The cold instantly bites the enriched warmth of your palms.

 

In ungloved hands, you wipe the dust from the marbled palate.

 

_Jake Collins_

_R.I.P_

_2013_

He would have been 3 years old now.

 

“Mama hasn’t forgotten you. And she never will. But it’s time to let you go.”

 

_Begin again._

 

 

 

You never really liked winter. The bleakness, the way nature shrouded underneath it, the cold graveyard silence it brought along with it.

 

But even in winter nights, you dream of spring summer.

 

 

You are returning from visiting Jake. Your eyes widen in disbelief when her sitting on the footsteps off your apartment building when you return. Lean in a somber dark jacket, her shirt was unbuttoned at her throat. She stood up under your scrutinizing gaze, one hand slung around brokenly on a sling, the other on her hips, tight lipped, the grey green eyes of hers brooding as they pondered over yours.

 

You are search her bandaged forehead and you wheeze your eyes looking for any further injury.

 

Any more cute.

 

If she bleeds, you know somewhere, somehow you’ll be bleeding too.

 

“You are here.”

 

“I’m here.” You said recovering from your breath, fluttering your wry eyes, proud of the chilly aloofness of your voice. “Why exactly are for you?”

 

“I heard you left him.”

 

“So?” You outer tension had not relaxed, but you were trembling inside with anger and an irrational sense of disappointment. “You just left. You didn’t even let me explain. So I don’t know why you are here, because I’m doing just fine.”

 

You brush past her, almost run towards your apartment.

 

She catches up to you when you are fumbling through your keys. You feel green eyes bore into, you try to be indifferent except you can’t. Your insides are crumbling.

 

“I had known Finn for 10 years of my life and married to him for 4years. I couldn’t just leave him for a 6 months romance. You didn’t even let me explain. You just left and I had to deal with the aftermath.”

 

“I thought it was the right thing to do. Because if you hadn’t chosen me, I don’t think I would have survived. I wanted you by my side, in my arms. Mine completely. And when you hesitated I took the easiest way out. I’m so sorry.”

 

She shook her head. “These ten months away from you has been hell for me. I should have gone on my knees and begged you to stay with me, I should have fought for you except I didn’t and I’m sorry.”

 

“When you left I was devastated.” You say quietly. “You gave me my art back but even with that I was only existing. I also thought I had nothing to hope for. But against all odds, here you are. Like a miracle. Don’t break my trust again, Lexa, I can only bear so much more.”

 

“How can I?” she says. “You are the one who has my heart.”

 

You look at her for reassurance.

 

“Say it again.” You demand.

 

And she says those words that you had ached to hear. Sghe goes down on one knee.

Iridescent green meshes your cerulean blues in fealty. “ _I’m in love with you. I’m in love with you. If you truly want me, I’ll be yours.”_

You pull her up and repeat her words on a shaken laugh.

 

“If I want? If …”

 

In one long stride, you have her wrapped in your arms, your mouth locked on hers in a deep passionate kiss. She yields rapturously, pressing closer against your body as if she wishes to be absorbed into you; all flesh, bone and blood.

 

You are careful not to touch her blemished arm. You enfold her and snuggle against her unhindered left side, hiding your face against the cleft of her neck.

 

_Spring summer._

“Why today?”

 

She kisses your jawline. “Because I didn’t want you to be alone today.”

 

In wetted eyelashes, you maneuver yourself over to face her ever-stagnant face.

 

“ _I’m in love with you. So very much, Lexa.”_

You inch over to her and so does she. Her well holstered cherry lips ghosts over your before languidly pulling you in over her. The remembered pleasure of pliant fingers negotiating though your curls, the liquid fire that she brings out from within you just by the brush of her lithe tongue dismantles you from within.

 

Pleasure rekindles in you in agonizing flames when you see the flurried excitement of her breathing as you stroke and plant slow sweet kisses along her velvet skin whilst artsy hands of yours strokes her clothed belly and her slackening eager thighs.

 

You don’t know if she’s here to stay. You don’t know if another apparition you are seeing. You don’t know if you can ever have her _forever with you,_ because at the end of the day, she will leave you for the battlefield and you’ll be here miles away from her. Alone. So you want to fingermark her skin, imprint you in her. You want her to claim you as hers. You are so shrouded by your lust that you almost don’t notice her flinch in pain when your elbow contacts sharply with her injured hand.

 

“It’s nearly healed.” She says.

 

But it doesn’t make you feel any better. You thumb the her slushy skin over her eye, desolately.

_It’s going to leave another scar._

“Another scar.” She says aloud, reading your mind.

 

 “It’s your scars that made me fall me love with you.” You say. You finger hastily her injured arm, before almost climbing off the bed.

 

But she stops you.

 

“Honorably discharged off active duty.” She sniggers, toying with the end of your tussled hair. “I have applied for to join the police force here, though.”

 

You smile against her. “You do love to serve.”

 

“Right now, all I want is to serve you. Make love to you.”

 

But she was wrong there for you felt suddenly there was all the time in the world for them to savour every delicious, intimate minute. For you, to discover that her hands will be gentle and unhurried, touching you where nobody could ever or will never reach. For her to know, that what she considered the ruins of her soul will forever be poetry to you.

 

“We have all the time in the world, Lexa.”

 

Her mouth curves into a smile. Her eyes tender. “We do, don’t we?”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if the fic got a bit too dramatic? Far stretched? Too long, too boring? I don't know but I hope you tell me if any of your think so. Feel free to say whatever. Primarily though, I hope whoever reads it, likes it.


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